The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival :: :: University of Virginia Library

O'er the foaming sea,
Far the ship hastens,
To the green island
Where my love dwells.
There we meet, love;
Never part more,
Till our eyes close
In their last sleep.

Bear me swiftly on,
Fresh and fair breezes,
O'er the blue ocean;—
Fill my white sail!
For my heart longs
For its dear home,—
Longs to meet her
Whom my youth loved.

Yonder rises dim,
O'er the dark waters,
Far, the green island
I have sought long.
Speed thee, swift bark,
As a dart flies!
Soon my loved shore
I shall greet again.

II. The Tryst.

Air: “Righil Thulaichean.”—(Tulloch Reel.)

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!

365

There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.
We will sit beneath its shadow,
As the gloamin' light is fading,
And the mist, along the meadow,
All its dewy flowers is shading.
We will sit and talk together,—
Tell how much we love each other;
As the lambs among the heather,
Gentle aye to one another;—
With a kiss of love and kindness,
Then we'll part, to meet again.
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!
There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.
Thou wilt na' distrust thy laddie,—
Truthful aye he 's been unto thee:
He has ever loe'd thee, lassie,—
He will ever dearly loe thee.
Now the heather bells are swinging,
And the gowany turf is glowing,
Bright the saugh, and gay the rowan,
Red the rose, and green the rashes,
Meet me, lassie, by the hazel,—
Meet me by the mountain burn!
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.

366

III. The Lover's Lament.

Air: “Cuilfhionn.”—(The Holly.)

O, closed the eye that beamed so kindly,
Mild as the morn, when it first uncloses!
O, pale the lip, that smiled so fondly,
Pure, in its hue, as the dewy rose!
O, like the rose, that lip has faded!
Cold in the grave thy form reposes;
Dark, dark as night, my soul is shaded;
Full as the fountain, my heart now flows.

Long shall I think of the hours when I sat with thee.
Under the shade of the trysting tree, at silent gloaming;
Long shall I dwell on the scenes I have viewed with thee;
But I shall see thee no more again.
Yet shall I never forget how I strayed with thee,
Over the hills, in the sunny noon of April, roaming;
Never forget how in childhood I played with thee,
Hours, that, like thee, were without a stain.

IV. Clan Donnal's Gathering.

A Pibroch.

Air: “Cogadh na Sith.”—(War or Peace.)

Up, Clan Donnal!
Wild rings the pibroch through glen and through valley;
Loud peals the slogan, that calls you to war!
Haste! Donnal's bold warriors on yonder hill rally;
High blaze the bale-fires o'er heath and o'er mountain;
And broad waves the standard, and streams afar.

367

Up, Clan Donnal!
Gird on the broadsword, and on with the tartan!
Haste, where the pipes shrilly waken the echoes,
For there is the gathering of Donnal to-day!
Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste ye from lake, and from glen, and from mountain,
From forest and heath, from the well and the fountain,
And rush ye, like eagles who sweep to their quarry,
Or sons of the mountain, abroad on their foray,
Nor think of aught else, but the loved ones behind you,
Who faithful defenders, in battle, shall find you.
So up, and away!

Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste to the gathering, as hounds in the morning
Speed where the horn rings o'er heath and o'er hill!
Haste! Clansmen should spring as the pipes give their warning,—
Dash from their heights, like a flood from its fountain,
When swelled by the burst of a cloud to its fill.
Up, Clan Donnal!
Trusty and faithful we ever have known you;—
Fearless and true were your fathers before you;—
Long may their pride and their glory remain!
Up, Clan Donnal!
On through the torrent, and on through the river,
And on up the steep where the mountain-sides shiver,
For spirits of heroes are hovering o'er you,
And yonder the Saxon invader before you;—
On, from your soil with your good claymores sweep them,
And high at the foot of your Grampians heap them.
So up, and away!